Alpha Billionaire Series

NATHAN

The kiosk scanned the boarding information from my phone, and I proceeded to the gate. Everything I did in the past twenty four hours was through a wall of haze. My movements were slow, telegraphed. My voice sounded like “wah wah wah! So did other people's voices.

I walked down the gangway and onto the plane. The air hostess showed me to my seat and took my carry-on bag for me. It was rare for me to feel this way, in need of assistance. But my ability to completely focus seemed to have stayed behind in that f+ cafe with Gabriella.

“Would you like a cocktail or wine while we wait to take off?"

I'shook my head to comprehend the words said to me. I hated saying “what’ when I heard the words, and they didn't register immediately. Half a second later the words lined up to form a cohesive sentence. A drink would be good, numb me even further. I didn’t need to think while I was stuck in this metal tube.

“Yeah, that would be great. Bourbon, on the rocks.”

“I'll be right back.” She gave me her best customer service grin and left me alone.

Alone. Gabriella could have been in the seat next to me. She would have loved this. Living a life, she never could have imagined, but she chose to stay in the shit hole café.

let out a heavy breath and pulled out my phone. Shit hole or not, that café held my heart because it had her.

I hit the dial on her number.

It rang.

“Pick up damn it" I called her the second I got home, she didn’t answer. I called her when I woke up. Same.

I got it she was mad, but she didn’t seem to get that I did not want to break up. I wanted her, and we needed to figure this out. She needed to see that this was something I needed to do. I also needed to prove to my father, my family, my mother that I was the man they didn’t seem to realize I was.

Too many needs, too many directions, not enough me or time.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

The call went to voicemail. I ended the call. How many times had I called? How many times had she seen my name on her phone, reaching out? She needed to pick up the F***g call.

I clenched my fist around the phone until the plastic of the protective case started to creak and pop. The case was there to stop me from breaking more phones.

“Your bourbon. If you need anything during the flight, just use the call button. My name is Cindy," the air hostess practically purred.

I looked up and I swear she was fingering the call button. Her uniform had fewer buttons buttoned than the last time she had come by. Her innuendo was not lost on me, but I had no interest.

“I will keep that in mind," I replied, accepting the drink with a nod. I couldn't muster a grin. This was going to be a long flight When we landed hours later, I had been pleasantly distracted by Cindy's flirting, an in-flight movie of some dumb comedy, and a nap. None of it provided the cleansing I needed to get Gabriella out of my head.

As soon as we landed, I had my bag and was striding from one life and into the next phase of my life. I tried calling Gabriella again.

As my time in Amsterdam progressed, I fell into a routine. I worked out, I went to work, I got drunk. It wasn't a healthy routine, it was just what I did, the same thing day after day. I didn't even take advantage of being in Europe or a new city.

I dealt with my uncle while perpetually hung over for at least six months. It wasn't smart, or healthy. At first, I called Gabriella every week, and then every other week.

One day while nursing a hot cup of coffee, easing the pain in my head away, two things happened that I thought were a sign my life was about to get better.

Two idiots on crotch rockets flew past the few cars on the road. They darted in and out of traffic. One even jumped the curb for a second and raced down the sidewalk before getting back on the street. I was out of my seat at the outdoor café and following them on foot. Running a bit so that I could visually follow them. Racers.

I swallowed the rest of my coffee in a gulp. I needed a fucking motorcycle. The urge to race around at high speeds had been lost in the fog of— I hated to admit to myself that it was a break up, but it was— the break up with Gabriella.

I pulled out my phone and looked up the closest dealer. I wanted a Ducati under me as soon as possible. And that's when I noticed it had been weeks, not days since I had tried to call Gabriella.

I had managed to dull the pain of losing her. I had taken the mental fog that surrounded me and managed to replace it with the haze of a perpetual hangover. I was done with those, both of them. I needed a clear head to ride. And riding was what I needed. Riding and Gabriella.

I called her. I missed her sweet voice. I missed everything about her. This time when I called her, it wasn't to be pitiful but to honestly check in, let her know that I still wanted her to come to Amsterdam and be with me. She would love it here. There was so much we could do together.

That call went to voicemail. So did the next few. At some point I think I was only calling her when I got drunk. She never answered, and I got drunk less and less and then never again.

I bought a Ducati, left it showroom floor red. No fancy customizing. It didn't take long before some punk on another racing motorcycle challenged me. I let him win and followed him into the street racing community.

The parties weren't as lit as they were back home. But the girls were sexy, and soon it felt as if I had my groove back.

My uncle didn't approve. He was too much like my dad that way. It was obvious they were brothers, they looked alike, they were judgmental and disapproving in the exact same ways. But he wasn't my father, and I wasn't there for his approval. I was there to do a job, and I was good at it.

By the end of my first year, I had a high success rate of identifying and acquiring properties to develop for the hotel and resort branch of the business. I made him money, that's all he needed to be concerned with.

The job was even easier once I stopped showing up hungover. By the end of my second year when I stopped racing, I was stone-cold focused on doing my job. I had my last drink ever, and I stopped racing. Nothing was quite as sobering as witnessing a stupid mistake compounded into a deadly accident.

After I lost my buddy Fredrik, I sold the bike. I stopped drinking. We hadn't been drunk. Far from it. But we had been drinkin; Drinking and wet pavement are never a good combination.

I walked away from the accident, Fred didn't. How many kids hadn't gone home after a night of racing and partying back home? Was Gabriella riding itch on the back of those a*****¢'s bikes? Were they safe having her perched on the pillion seat behind them? Was she safe?

I tried to think of anything other than letting my mind race through everything that Fred had done, had said that evening. What could I have done to have changed the outcome? What could I have done so that I wasn't standing in a cemetery, and he wasn't in a pine box?

My gut clenched, what if that was me? Would Gabriella cry at my grave side as I was lowered into the ground forever? What i that was her? Anguish surged through my system at the thought of losing her in such a deeply permanent way.

I stepped away from the funeral. I couldn't stomach it anymore. I had a sudden bone-deep urge to know that she was safe. My thumbs froze over the touch screen of my phone. How was it that I no longer had her phone number registered in my brain? I started to dial and found myself connecting to the office number. I had to look up her number.

How long had it been since I last tried to call her? It seemed like only a few weeks ago, but there was nothing in my phone log from the past few months. How had I lost so much time? How had I let something, someone so vital to my existence slip away?

Maybe she had been right, maybe breaking up had been the right thing to do. I would always love her, and she would always be the one who got away from me.

I called. It went to voicemail, no surprise there. This time instead of hanging up immediately I listened to her outgoing message just to hear her voice. She warmed my heart and settled my nerves, and all she was doing was saying her voice and telling the caller to leave a message and giving the café’s phone and hours.

Well, at least I knew she was still at that shit hole café. It made no sense to have her work information on her voicemail unless she had been getting a lot of calls to her personal phone about work.

I held onto the feelings that listening to her had given me and returned to the funeral. Life was full of endings; some were harder to deal with than others.